


the infinity of delight

by skatingsplits



Series: the dangerous edge of things [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, don't take this very seriously, half of this is buildup but i still didn't manage a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 21:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18668614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Their apartment in the Vatican is so gorgeous that Zelda can't bring herself to mind when her husband disappears with the rest of the Council practically the instant the plane hits the tarmac. Needless to say she isn't the sort of woman who's spent much time over the years imagining the perfect honeymoon but when her mind has very occasionally been drawn to the topic, the picture in her head has looked exactly like this. The only thing missing is the groom but as Zelda's imagination tends more towards decadent soft furnishings than fairytale romance, maybe that's entirely suitable.





	the infinity of delight

**Author's Note:**

> \- I accidentally deleted the ask that contained this prompt but the general gist was “AU with no Caligari spell where Zelda gets to properly appreciate being the wife of the new Anti-Pope". I love power hungry Zelda and I love zealot Zelda so this really hit my sweet spot and I may have gotten a tiny bit carried away with my Lady Macbeth!Zelda fantasies.
> 
> \- Look, I didn't want to go into the emotional intricacies of Zelda getting her freak on while her husband has her nephew being tortured in jail so I just ignored that little plot detail and wrote the porn, okay? For the purposes of this story, Ambrose and Sabrina and Hilda are all fine and frolicking around a meadow somewhere like happy little lambs. Sue me, I’m lazy and thirsty.

 

_**"What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight?"- Charles Baudelaire, trans. Louise Varèse.** _

 

Their apartment in the Vatican is so gorgeous that Zelda can't bring herself to mind when her husband disappears with the rest of the Council practically the instant the plane hits the tarmac. Needless to say she isn't the sort of woman who's spent much time over the years imagining the perfect honeymoon but when her mind has very occasionally been drawn to the topic, the picture in her head has looked exactly like this. Cool marble tabletops beneath her fingertips, enough gold leaf to keep a small country financially afloat, unholy relics lining every available inch of wall space. The only thing missing is the groom but as Zelda's imagination tends more towards decadent soft furnishings than fairytale romance, maybe that's entirely suitable.

  
She draws herself a luxurious, foaming bath; it’s hot enough to scald but she lingers in the tub until it’s tepid. The bathtub in the Spellman house is an equally large, claw-footed monstrosity but she associates it too strongly with her mother’s habit of crying in there for hours at a time to take any real pleasure in it. Besides, with one (usually Sabrina-related) thing or another, she seldom has enough time to soak for long enough for the steam to stop rising off the top of the water. Seldom had enough time, she corrects herself as she frowns at her water-wrinkled skin. Perhaps it's a good thing that Faustus hasn’t reappeared yet. Mottled red thighs and pruned hands hardly make up the vision a man dreams of seeing on his wedding night.

  
But when Zelda is all smoothed out and silky-skinned again, her hair artfully arranged in loose curls and her body clad in some strategically placed scraps of fabric that don’t really warrant being classified as clothing, and her husband still is nowhere to be seen, she begins to feel just a little irritated. It’s not that she actually thinks the consummation of her marriage should take precedence over the brutal murder of the Church’s supreme leader. It’s merely that if her husband isn’t planning on joining her in their temporary marital bed at all this evening, Zelda has wasted a hell of a lot of La Mer.

  
Well, maybe it isn’t just that. The fact of the matter is, Zelda can’t stop herself from thinking about the very distinct possibility that her bridegroom might currently be a lifeless husk on a marble floor somewhere in the underbelly of the city and what’s more, that she might be just a tiny bit responsible. None of which she'd expected when idly contemplating wedded bliss but knowing Faustus Blackwood as she does, perhaps that was her first mistake.

  
Somehow between their one-man wedding ceremony and a rather fraught flight over the Atlantic Ocean, they've neglected to discuss the matter of Father Enoch's unfortunate passing in depth but Zelda would bet every penny of the Spellman family fortune that it has her husband's bloody handprints all over it. She can only hope that that isn't literally the case; the old man was unlikely to go down in history as one of the Church's great leaders but she doesn't think that will lend Faustus any leniency if he's failed to sufficiently cover his tracks. If his tendency towards style over substance has got him killed, she'll murder him.

  
What makes the situation worse is that she can't help feeling uncharacteristically guilty. This isn't exactly what Zelda had intended when she'd urged him to make his own opportunities for career advancement but she'd be very surprised if she hadn't planted the seed. Faustus had complained at length over brandy about Enoch's petty grudge against the Blackwoods, his personal dislike for Faustus himself, how it was keeping him from climbing up the ladder and most of all, how _unfair_ it all was- at such great length that Zelda had almost begun to see where His Disgrace was coming from. But despite his grousing, it doesn't seem to have occurred to Faustus to do anything about it. At least, not until she'd whispered in his ear while he was buried inside her what a shame it was that he was robbing the Church of Night of a jewel in its crown by not forcing his way forward, by letting this irrelevant old man hold back someone so powerful and strong and _virile_. Her words had mostly been designed to get him to flip her over and screw her into the mattress but it seems that, for once, he hadn't just been thinking with his cock.

  
Zelda certainly isn't complaining. Generally speaking, she doesn't approve of murder among witches but she doubts anyone is going to miss the man for reason other than his title. And it's not that she doesn't trust the Dark Lord's judgement but really, even she can hardly distinguish between all those men on the Council; it's hardly going to make a tangible difference to the day to day running of the Church. But it might make the world of difference for her. If her husband manages to get away with this, well. She doesn't see what else could possibly be standing in their way. After all, with her at his side, Faustus has so much potential. At present he's a touch too brutal and unyielding to make anything of himself as a truly great leader, too narrow-minded. But Zelda is confident that she's in possession of the necessary weapons to gently expand his horizons, render him a little more malleable. And (the brittleness of his ego aside) Faustus isn't lacking in qualities that would make him an entirely suitable candidate for a Satanic bishopric or deanship. Not that that will mean anything if he doesn't manage to keep his cool today. Praise Satan that she'd chosen such a talented liar for a groom.

  
Still, as the witching hour comes and goes, Zelda can't quite shake off the nerves. She hovers over the chessboard in the corner for a while; playing against herself is nothing new but it isn't quite as much fun now that she's gotten used to having an opponent. Even if it were, she's too on edge to concentrate. Pouring over one of the Italian daily papers is no better as a distraction and when she finds she's read the same sentence about the banking crisis three times and not internalised a word, Zelda gives up and goes to bed.

  
The bed in question is absolutely glorious. The sheets are crisp and cool, the mattress indulgently comfortable under her aching back. Her only complaint is that the frame is too large for both arms and legs to be tied to the sturdy wooden bedposts at once but at the minute, the idea of anything nearly as entertaining as bondage seems to be purely hypothetical. Not that that should really be at the forefront of her mind; if Faustus has met with an unfortunate end, Zelda will feel rather guilty about having internally chastised him for not rushing home to relieve her sexual frustration.

  
Despite her worries about such an quick journey into widowhood, it's easy to let the balmy weather and comforting excess tempt her into sleep. So much so that when the mattress beneath her dips with the weight of another body, it takes her a minute to fully emerge from her cocoon of drowsiness. Evidently, widowhood may not be so quickly forthcoming after all. With pleasantly sleepy expectation, she waits for a strong hand to slide up her thigh, sharp teeth to sink into her neck, the sensation of his hard cock pressed against the small of her back. None of it comes. She can smell his cologne, knows the pattern of his breathing, but he doesn't so much as brush against her. It isn't a positive sign; if he had good news, Zelda is sure he'd be two thrusts away from an orgasm by now. The thought vaguely crosses her mind that they've never actually shared a bed before without fucking first, and then she's drifting straight back into restless sleep.

  
When her eyes snap open again, her husband is no longer beside her. Instead, he's halfway out the door, stopping only to adjust his tie in the mirror and Zelda half-expects him to rush away and ignore her murmured “good morning". Actually, he turns on his heel, bending down to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth and humming appreciatively when she sits up a little and he gets a better view of her shameless excuse for a nightgown.

  
“Mm, was that for me, my darling?” He sounds distracted and Zelda is itching to ask him about the events of the previous day but she merely gives him her most flirtatious smile.

  
“No, I'm afraid not. As you were nowhere to be found, I decided to take a lover. He likes me in silk” she purrs, toying with his shirt collar and feeling her cheeks flush with arousal when Faustus responds to her teasing with the dangerous grin she knows so well.

  
“And you didn't keep him here for me to play with? Selfish girl. What's yours is mine now, Zelda, no?” She doesn't know how a kiss on the hand can be genuinely obscene, but the one he bestows on her now is and Zelda feels another spike of white hot desire. It's not actually a lack of sexual fulfilment that has her so worked up, not really. He had her three nights ago, buried his face between her thighs and eaten her out for what must have been an hour until she was a sobbing, writhing wreck. Her sexual appetite might be a little above par but even she can go without it seventy-two hours and not get so _jittery_. Nor is it the wrung-out state of her nerves; the adrenaline gives her a bit of a kick but it doesn't send her hot and dizzy like this, doesn't put her head in such a spin. No, what has her cunt pulsing is the thought of what could happen if they manage to make their way around this little obstacle. It seems so real when he's standing in front of her, all the endless possibility setting her body alight. She can make him great, if he lets her. If he hasn't already hammered his own coffin shut and tossed a pile of dirt on top for good measure.

  
“I'm afraid I must leave you to him again, my love" Faustus continues, and despite her best effort, Zelda's face must flicker because he gives her a tight smile and briefly strokes his index finger over her jaw. “Believe me, I would love nothing more than discover what other hellish delights you've packed in that ridiculously large suitcase. But in circumstances such as these...”

  
He trails off with a regretful wave of the hand and Zelda immediately plasters a bright smile on her face, reminded of why they haven't actually discussed his episcopocide out loud. They really haven't needed to. Generally speaking, she dismisses most of her sister and niece's notions about personal relationships out of hand but at present, Zelda has to admit that there's something to be said for being on the same wavelength as one's partner. Particularly when it means you can maintain plausible deniability in a possible upcoming murder trial.

  
“Don't be ridiculous. I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself, as I think you're aware.” Zelda lowers her voice suggestively, trailing a finger over her own collarbone and Faustus makes that little noise of appreciation again and kisses her on the mouth far too briefly before leaving. She's still desperate to know what had been discussed yesterday evening but she's far too skilled in the art of manipulating Faustus Blackwood to have asked outright. He likes to gift her information rather than letting her retrieve it for herself, likes to keep her dangling from the end of his hook so he can feel important, self-centred fool that he is. It's an irritating habit but Zelda is fairly sure he'd have told her if either of them were in imminent danger of death and beyond that, she can wait. Sooner or later, he always says far more than he means to.

  
True to her word, Zelda is very good at entertaining herself. When he's gone, she idly contemplates doing so in the manner she'd hinted at; she goes as far as sliding a hand under soft silk to stroke herself but whether it's the angle, the heat or the nerves, it doesn't seem to be quite working for her. Later, she promises herself. If she's left to languish alone again this evening, she'll fuck herself into a stupor and leave her ruined knickers on his pillow.

  
Instead of self-pleasure, Zelda goes in search of other kinds. The atmosphere in the Necropolis is hushed, naturally, due to certain recent events but the pure power buzzing through the air is in no way diminished. Somehow, she'd forgotten just how much she loves it here. Worship in Greendale is more than satisfactory but here... Before she even kneels down in prayer, Zelda can feel it dripping through her like rich honey, how close she is to the Dark Lord, to the source of her power. She feels like she could set the city ablaze with a flick of her wrist, move mountains and topple buildings. It's close on two hours before she finally, reluctantly, tears herself away and makes a pointed mental note to come back with her husband. The frisson in the atmosphere is just what a Satanic honeymoon requires.

  
There are friends in the Vatican City that she hasn't seen in decades, not since she was a globetrotting gadabout without a housebound nephew and an orphaned niece to keep her tied to home. As she dines with a select few on red wine and red meat, it's shockingly easy to slip back into the skin of the Zelda she used to be. Before everything became quite so complicated. So easy that when she returns home and goes to touch up her makeup, it's startling to not see a carefree young woman in the mirror. Still, she isn't dissatisfied with the reflection in front of her, heat-smudged mascara and all. She busies herself with her comfortably familiar routine, fixing errant curls and reapplying a perfect line of lipstick. After yesterday's frustrated efforts, Zelda has no intention of waiting around in sluttish lingerie to no avail again (even she isn't that masochistic) but after a moment's contemplation, she does discard her underwear. It would be a shame not to make some kind of effort. Along a similar line of thought, she toys with the idea of playing up the morning's joke and sourcing a muscular Italian man as a particularly entertaining type of marital aid but ultimately decides against it. She'd rather have her husband to herself tonight, if indeed she's going to have him at all.

  
Zelda has barely had time to pour herself a tumbler of whisky when the husband in question appears. She's about to make a joke about him being summoned by the scent of expensive spirits before she fully takes in the expression on his face. He looks almost frighteningly manic and he strides straight over to her with such purpose that for one heart-stopping second, Zelda thinks that he's come to arrest her, pin his crime on her and send her to the chopping block so he can get everything he's ever wanted by crushing her into dust. The thought hasn't quite faded as he grabs her around the waist so it's a surprise when Zelda suddenly finds herself being thoroughly, hungrily kissed. Neither of them make any move to pull away until she's in serious danger of fainting from lack of oxygen. Somehow he's managed to back her up against the drinks cabinet and without realising it, her fingers have half-unbuttoned his shirt.

  
“I take it the Council finished their business rather earlier than yesterday?” It's a poor attempt at wit but it's all she can muster with her head still spinning and a very desperate urge to grind her cunt against his thigh.  
“They did. As their newly-appointed Anti-Pope commanded them.”

  
“Oh, someone was chosen so soon?” Zelda tries to sound as though all her attention is on his words and not on how quickly she can get him to take his belt off. It's not that she's not interested; she thrives on being privy to his little titbits of insider information, particularly those that imply that neither of them are in imminent danger of being executed at dawn. But there's barely a hair's breadth of difference between all those old Council members, and she's had this on her mind all damned day.

  
Instead of answering, Faustus tilts her head up with a finger beneath her chin. His smile is wide and sharp and completely, utterly triumphant and, very suddenly, Zelda's entire world shifts. He can't mean... he isn't even on the Council... he isn't even...

  
She lets out a huge, shuddering breath, vaguely registering that her fingers are trembling hard against his chest.

  
“If this is a joke, Faustus, I must tell you that it's profoundly unamusing.”

  
“Your Unholy Eminence” he corrects her. His voice is a low, self-satisfied purr and for the first time in her life, Zelda understands what women mean when they say that their knees have gone weak. It's as though the air itself is heavier and when her body sways from side to side, she feels sluggish and slow for precisely two heartbeats until everything clicks back into frenzied, frantic motion.

  
Faustus sends a dozen bottles of eye-wateringly expensive liquor crashing to the floor so he can hoist her up on the cabinet and roughly spread her legs. She hears a seam rip but couldn't care less; her hands are fisting in his hair, trying to get as much of her body pressed against him as physically possible. His lips are pressing greedy kisses to that particular spot on her neck that always makes her squirm and Zelda claws at his back, trying to nonverbally express that she doesn't need this teasing, doesn't want it; she was ready for him before he even walked through the door but now... As far as lust goes, she'd thought that she had nothing new left to experience. But, while there's admittedly an awful lot of memories to complete against, Zelda can't remember ever, ever wanting anyone this much. It's crashing through her body to such so violently that it's surely going to start spilling out of her skin, she feels heavy with it, as though her limbs are having to wade through a sea of desire to even move an inch.

  
Sooner rather than later, Faustus seems to get the message. Zelda had known she was soaking wet for him but the sound of his cock sliding into her is shamelessly obscene, even if it's slightly masked by her own desperate keening. The floods of raw physical lust haven't left much room in her mind for anything as complex as a coherent thought process but the parts that are still slightly functioning are screaming that the man currently burying himself inside her is now the supreme leader of the religion she's built her entire life upon. It's hardly surprising that it takes no time at all before Zelda's back is arching and her thighs are shaking and her lips are parted, letting forth a repeated cry of his name that very soon turns into a guttural groan as she tightens so hard around him that it almost hurts. For once, they're almost perfectly in sync; Zelda's cunt hasn't stopped clenching when her husband succumbs to his pleasure and he sinks his teeth into her shoulder, fabric of her dress be damned. Zelda sighs, not wanting to move a muscle in case it diminishes one iota of the simmering bliss still running through her. When Faustus raises his head and their eyes meet, his are glittering with uncurbed passion and it makes Zelda's still-racing pulse skip a beat.

  
“Thank you, your Unholy Eminence” she coos, rubbing her face against his neck “For the great honour of... communing with you.” The noise Faustus makes is utterly animalistic and when he grabs her hand to kiss her fingertips, he doesn't seem to be able to stop himself nipping at her index finger.

  
“Zelda...” he moves his mouth down to her own neck, scattering filthy kisses over her throat and collarbone and Zelda can't stop thinking about her visit to the church hours earlier, how alive she'd felt. She'd thought that was as good as it could get, the closest she could feel to the Dark Lord and knowing now how badly wrong she was makes her moan against her husband's ear.

  
“You'll be the death of me, my dear.” With a last swipe of his tongue over her clavicle, Faustus pulls away. He swills down the drink she'd left on the table and settles himself in a high-backed chair that's probably older than she is, not even bothering to refasten his belt buckle. Zelda feels that she should probably be slightly offended at his presumption but that would be much easier if she wasn't already contemplating riding his thigh to another orgasm.

  
“I do hope not. You have so many more advantages while you still have a pulse.” She comes over to settle on his lap and, as if to demonstrate her point, bites at the pulse point on his neck. His chuckle is indulgent, lazy, and Zelda wonders how quickly she can get him to fuck her again.

  
“Oh, I don't know about that. The widow of an Anti-Pope gets a very generous pension and a seat on the Maîtresses Committee, I believe.” There's that knife-twist of desire again, the one that seems to occur every time that she remembers that this isn't just a very pleasant dream; she can quite literally reach out and touch the very thing that's going to give her almost everything she's ever wanted.

  
“Indeed? Well, I'll bear that in mind, should you begin to outlive your usefulness” she says as her fingers start to stroke his chest. Faustus's answering smile is genuinely amused and Zelda knows it's because he knows that she absolutely means it. He hasn't eradicated any of the doubts she'd had pre-wedding, exactly (she still doesn't trust him an inch); it's just that they seem to have been vastly outweighed. It's rare, in her experience at least, to understand someone quite so thoroughly. The two of them are playing a complex game of chess while practically everyone else in Zelda's life has yet to move past snakes and ladders.

  
“How would you feel about a permanent relocation here, my darling?” Faustus's hand winds into her hair and Zelda finds herself flushed with hot excitement. The thought of feeling like she had in the Necropolis every day... Just as quickly, she's hit with an icy cold pang of guilt as she thinks of Hilda, Ambrose and Sabrina. But no, she reprimands herself as she schools her features into a dazzling smile, not now. Being the reason this evening is anything less than perfect for her husband would be very foolish indeed.

  
“I'd love it" she purrs, and Faustus smiles that sharp smile, pulling her down to him until their lips meet. Zelda can feel him getting hard again and reaches between them to stroke him, letting out one of the breathy little moans that she knows he likes when he bites at her bottom lip. With her unoccupied hand, she moves to pull her skirt back up a little but her husband tuts disapprovingly, drawing back with a dangerously playful look in his eyes.

  
“Oh, no, no, _no,_ sweetheart...” he chastises her, hand reaching up to cup her jaw, and there's another heavy tug of lust in the pit of Zelda's stomach.

  
“Did I do something wrong, your Excellency?” lightning fast, she paints herself into a picture of innocent dismay, using that breathless schoolgirl voice that men seem to find so universally, predictably appealing. He always sees through her attempts to make him lose his composure, she knows he does, but she notices that the muscle in his jaw twitches anyway.

  
“I like to look at my toys before I play with them, Zelda.” Despite herself, Zelda's teeth sink into her bottom lip. Perhaps she's become predictable too; judging by the look on Faustus's face, he knows very well that his words made her cunt clench around nothing, tightened the tension in her stomach. Wordlessly, she rises to her feet, twisting round so he can unzip her dress. She's perfectly capable of doing it herself but loves that he can never stop himself touching, stroking his fingers along her back or squeezing her hip if the fastening runs low enough. It's power, of a sort, and it's power that Zelda has become expert at harnessing. She lets the fabric slowly drop to the floor, not missing the way his eyes skate greedily over her bare flesh as though he hasn't seen it literally thousands of times before. That's power too, and it makes her hands tremble as they fumble with the straps of her brassiere. Usually Faustus is more than happy to assist but now he just leans back in his chair and watches with dark, hungry eyes.

  
Still standing, it seems wise to wait for his permission before crawling back onto his lap. If she felt any less frantic, she'd test him, see how far he'd let her go before administering some form of exquisite punishment. Currently, however, anything that risks delaying her next orgasm doesn't really seem worth the risk. She's proved right when he pulls her towards him and scoops her onto his lap, bringing her flush against him until the material of his shirt scratches against her breasts and the hardness in his trousers presses deliciously against her clit when she shifts her hips. Zelda moans as she shifts them again, grinding down on him with her head tipped back and her eyes closed, and it's only partially performative. He lets her keep going until her breathing is ragged and she's mewling into the quiet night air before his nails start to sink in to her flesh and she stops instantly. She knows her cues by now.

  
“Was there something you wanted, sweetheart?” The smugness in his voice would be far more irritating if it wasn't so utterly lascivious. It should be irritating anyway but for reasons known only to the Dark Lord, she's always found Faustus's arrogance arousing. He's been able to make her cunt slick with little more than a glance since long before he was even in sight of a mere High Priesthood and as the years have gone on, it's only gotten worse.

  
“Yes, your Unholy Eminence" she breathes, sliding a hand between them to squeeze his cock and sighing when he groans.

  
“But that's a reward for good girls, Zelda" he says smoothly, recovering his composure and swiping his thumb over her lips as he takes himself in hand. Resisting the urge to bite it is almost a superhuman effort. “And I think we both know that a wanton little slut like you doesn't fit that description.”

  
Praise Satan, she actually whimpers.

  
“Your Unholiness, isn't it your duty to fulfil the needs of your disciples?” She pleads into his ear, not ceasing rubbing herself against him. “Even errant sinners like myself. _Especially_ errant sinners like myself. I need to be guided, Father, I need someone enlightened to show me the way. To show me how exquisite the pleasure of the Dark Lord's will can be...”

  
Faustus snarls, pulling her down onto his cock and hungrily claiming her mouth in the same vicious movement. Gasping into the messy kiss, Zelda instinctively begins moving her hips, her fingers digging hard into his shoulders as she impales herself on him again and again.

  
“That's right, my wicked girl, that's it. You were made for this, darling, you know that? This perfect little pussy was made to take your Unholy Father's cock” his voice is low and rough and sends a shiver through her body that makes her flutter around him. One of his hands is pinching hard at her nipple, the thumb of the other working her clit as she rides him and Zelda is faintly aware that she's making enough noise to wake the dead. It's ironic, really, that she can't remember ever feeling as much like his whore as she does now she's his wife. A wiser woman than she would have never taught him all these weak spots; at present, she'd do anything he asked of her just as long as he didn't stop. “That's it, precious, that eager little cunt can take it. So tight for such a greedy whore, Zelda.”

  
He thrusts up into her, hard, and she's coming, shattering around him with a desperate cry, completely unable to catch her breath. Both of his hands go to grab her hips and keep her moving as she shudders through her orgasm and the part of her brain that's still functioning is slightly surprised that she hadn't come the moment she took him inside her. As the clenching of her cunt begins to ebb, Zelda attempts to start moving her hips of her own volition again but her husband's strong hands keep her firmly in place. She makes a face that could only be described as a pout but Faustus has a wicked smile on his face as he pinches the flesh of her hip and lifts her off him.

  
“Clean me off, darling. You were so wet that you've made quite a mess, hmm?” Really, she hates him. Definitely hates that she can be fresh from her second orgasm of the evening and still feel that heavy rumble of desire when he says something so supercilious. Absolutely hates that sinking to her knees in front of him feels as natural as breathing.

  
She had made rather a mess. When she runs her tongue over his shaft, the taste is her and him combined and despite herself, Zelda makes a tiny noise of satisfaction. Faustus obviously doesn't miss her little thrill; he grunts encouragingly, carding his hand through her messy hair. Praise Satan that her husband is even more of a fool for lust than she is. She takes him into her mouth, her hand wrapped around the base of his cock as she sets about her task in earnest.

  
“Such a good, good girl, Zelda.” Well, he's certainly changed his tune. “Perfect. So good for me, sweetheart. My delicious little wife. You're going to do me proud, aren't you, my darling?” Oh, he has _no_ idea. Faustus has always had a tendency to let his mouth run ahead of his brain while she's on her knees for him but she's glad even his sex-addled brain beginning to grasp exactly how lucky he is to have her by his side. Or at his front.

  
Bending her head, Zelda moves to take him deeper but only relaxes her throat a little; she knows he likes it when she chokes. His hips buck and long fingers tighten their grip on her hair so that it hurts to pull back but the pain in her scalp goes rushing straight to her cunt; when she looks up at him hazily as she tongues his leaking head, he just grins. Foolish of her to forget that she's not the only one who knows a trick or two.

  
“Don't pretend you don't like it, darling” he tugs her head back down, hard, and groans heavily when she splutters around him. “I know exactly what that greedy cunt of yours wants. Sucking my cock gets you wetter than the Tiber.”

  
He's not entirely wrong. Hearing Faustus grunt and hiss as she sucks on him is intoxicating and when she reminds herself that she has the Anti-Pope's cock in her mouth, Zelda can't hold back a little moan of her own. Apparently this is the last straw for her husband; he pulls her backwards by her hair and she barely has time to question it before he's standing up and yanking her back again so that her lips are pressed against the head. Zelda goes to willingly engulf him again but the hand in her hair won't let her move a muscle. Instead, his hips snap forward and it doesn't take a second before he's well and truly fucking her mouth. There's mascara dripping down her cheeks, she can feel it, but as her arousal is dripping down her thighs, it would seem churlish to complain. Her throat will be raw when he's finished and Zelda can tell by the strangled edge to his groans that he's close. While staying as still as she can, she brings a hand to her swollen clit and it hardly takes a minute before she's clamping down around emptiness, so intensely that it's only just on the good side of painful. The sound of her choked off moaning is evidently enough for Faustus's hips to jerk for a final time before he spurts into her mouth and Zelda quickly bobs her head forward a little so that it hits the back of her now-aching throat. She's always been rather good at this, she thinks, and apparently His Unholiness concurs.

When he finally untangles his hand from her hair, he practically flops back into his chair, running a hand over his face in a gesture that makes the corners of Zelda's mouth twitch. She stands, making for the big ugly mirror on the wall to attempt to recover at least a little of her decency but finds herself being pulled back towards him by the hand and settled on his knee. Of course. He likes her like this, a mess. Peculiar, really, as he's generally quite fastidious with regards to personal appearance but she supposes he likes to appreciate his handiwork. If she didn't know any better, she'd roll her eyes. The most powerful warlock alive and he still needs to see her smeared lipstick to feel like a man.

  
“My ruined little bride. What am I going to do with you?” Faustus purrs, wiping at her mouth with his thumb so that the digit comes away stained red. She rather likes the visual.

  
“I can think of a few things” her hand snakes up his chest and Zelda is pleased to find that his heartbeat is still racing. Smirking, he pulls her in to kiss the taste of himself from her mouth and she finds herself letting out a needy whine when he breaks away that only makes him smile wider.

  
“You know, you've always been wasted on Greendale, darling. Such an exquisite flower deserves presenting in pride of place, don't you think?” She doesn't disagree. Although it would be hard to disagree with him on any point tonight. He could swear blind that he was Adam come to life again and she'd simply smile and try to dig out some fig leaves. It's the wise move to keep him happy for as long as possible, of course, but it isn't just that. Truthfully, she really is grateful. Because as much as he needs her to make a success of things, she needs him too. At least until she finds out how many blowjobs it's going to take for her to slip through a little legislation on female High Priests.

 

 


End file.
